


Choices

by orphan_account



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Dying of the lost light AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-12
Updated: 2016-12-12
Packaged: 2018-09-08 00:29:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 913
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8822479
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Tarn has a proposition in the flower fields: Join the Decpticons again. 
Megatron accepts.





	

To say he had not been expecting the phone call would have been a lie. Still it was with great trepidation Tarn made his way through the Necrobot’s fields. From atop his perch on the hill he could see across almost the entire planet. As empty and barren as the mausoleum it was soon to be.

A rational bot would conclude that his companion was late, perhaps a no show. No one had ever accused Tarn of being rational, not on the subject of Megatron. No, his lord and master would never, could never, be tardy. This was simple fact. If anything time had a way of warping and distorting itself to his schedule. No, Megatron wasn't late. Tarn was simply early.

He hummed a jaunty tune as he waited, brushing off in vain, what little pollen he could from his treads. The air was thick with the stuff, casting a fine layer over the planet in it's entirety. He scrubbed a little harder. It wouldn't do to meet, after such time, coated in this vile semi-organic matter. It would be a disgrace, a literal stain on both his and Megatron’s good names. Tarn applied more pressure. 

A smear of pollen stained his arm guard, soaking in a rich, majestic blue. He sighed, this was worse than energon stains. The way it smattered and soiled him, gritty, sinking deep into the lines and crevices of his armor. Every attempt to clear the cursed powder just smeared them further, soaking into his joints and treads. He was just beginning to regret not bringing along a spare rag when he saw the lone silhouetted form across the horizon.

Even from a distance Tarn could tell, blasphemous as it was, Megatron did not look good. His once behemoth frame looked gaunt and with every mighty step a loose rattle emanated from within, audible even his distance away. A burning fury colored his face, the flush hidden behind his mask. He would tear those Autobots apart. They way they mistreated, poked and prodded his leader. That is if His Lord didn't claim the honor himself. 

“Tarn.”

Megatron had made it up the hill, his words a command and a symphony all in one. Powerful and prideful despite the dings and scrapes lacerating his protoform. Tarn’s knees almost went weak with joy hearing his name on those lips. He was unworthy for such attention. Megatron’s eyes boring down upon him, and him alone, an authoritative expectancy reflecting back in them.

Tarn allowed a rare-felt wave of giddy wash over himself before locking it safely away within him. There would be time for celebration later. Now his master awaited his full attention.

“Megatron,” he rasped, throat hoarse, “my lord.”

Even after the fools energon, the stripping of his weapon systems Megatron radiated inner power. Pure, erotic power. Tarn’s mouth went dry and his eyes lit upon his bare arm. The sections where his fusion cannon once sat still glimmered in the setting sun. The only sector of his once immaculate armor not dulled or ravaged by his prison time. It looked sick and wrong, his leader without his signature weapon and the autobot badge, plastered atop his majestic chest. Tarn wanted to purge, tear that dreaded heresy off. The other error was more easily dispatched.

He unlatched his own fusion cannon from his arm with a practiced precision and bowed down low, offering it to Megatron in fervency, an offering for his god. From where his head was bowed, Tarn hazarded a glance upward, peeking up at his leader through slitted eyes. Megatron gave him an equally calculating look, as if debating his offer, but made no move towards the mighty weapon. Tarn shifted it slightly in his grasp, jiggling it tantalizingly. Take it.

“My lord,” he offered again, desperate, scraping even lower, nasal plates kissing the dirt, nudging the cannon closer. Take it. Please take it. End this charade.

Or I will end you was left unsaid.

Megatron gave him an unreadable stare, fingers running across the edge of his badge once more. Tarn’s teeth ground. How he hated that thing, cheery and red. A symbol for he hated. Everything they stood against. He waited with bated breath. Ever the loyalist.

Finally a cold, cruel smile spread over Megatron’s face, a rare sight, even for his most ardent followers, and one Tarn would treasure forever. His fingers wound tightly over the autobot sigil, caressing it. Tarn’s eyes were glued to the action as it crumpled in a sudden clench. The little face warped and shriveled as it fell to the ground, crushed under a pede. 

Tarn almost imploded with joy as Megatron snapped on the fusion cannon, testing out its weight and balance with a few perfunctory swipes. The intimacy of sharing a mounted weapon made him light-headed, as a hum filled the air as it primed. It was intoxicating.

“Well, what are you waiting for,” Megatron barked, “Gather your troops and prepare to march. We have Autobots to crush.”

Tarn grinned from behind his mask and saluted smartly, “Yes, Sir.”

“Oh, and Tarn,” his lord's eyes bore into him, ruby red and filled with malice, his tone clipped,“the red and gold one is mine. He was of particular annoyance. I'd like to return the favor.”

That accent. The countless nights Tarn had spent practicing and perfecting it's imitation. So cultured, so smooth.

“Of course,” he purred, “They'll never know what hit them, Sir.” 

Megatron was back.


End file.
